“Oh, Maggie, please thank Lord Bothwell for me!”
Maggie smiled and nodded, then went about the task of helping Pansy to ready the bride. The serving woman had seen the woebegone expression on Mistress de Marisco’s face earlier, and the men were already talking of the fierce argument between Lord Gordon and his betrothed wife. His lordship must have seen her look, too, and had obviously comforted the lass before sending along the jewelry. He was a man who knew how to make a woman smile, was Francis Stewart-Hepburn, thought Maggie, who had known him all her life.
Stripped of her filthy riding clothes, Velvet climbed into the high oak tub and sighed blissfully. Then suddenly she sniffed. “Gillyflowers!” she exclaimed.
“Aye,” said Pansy. “I may have had to pack light, mistress, but there was no need to forget the essentials. I slipped a small vial of your scent into the pack.”
Together the two women soaped Velvet, then washed her long auburn hair. There was no time to dally, Maggie said, for the wedding was set for eight o’clock. The men were already decorating the hall, delighted at the diversion. Half a dozen of Lord Bothwell’s men had ridden into the nearby village to bring back the preacher. She chattered on, Pansy joining in, while Velvet only half listened to them.
Married.She turned the word over in her mind.Married.She still felt as strongly about her situation as she had five months ago when she had first heard of Alexander Gordon. It was not that she didn’t care for him, for to her discomfort she found that she did. Whether or not it was love she couldn’t be sure, never having been in love before. What she did know was that she felt trapped. She was willing to marry Alex, but not quite yet. I’m not even sixteen, she thought.
Her mother had been married for the first time at fifteen, and Velvet knew that that was precisely why she had wanted her youngest child to have more time. Somehow Velvet didn’t believe that she would be like her mother with several husbands and so many adventures, but it would have been nice to have had a little more time at court. She was also unhappy about Alex’s tricking her into a handfast marriage, followed by this hurried religious ceremony by a Calvinist preacher. She had been raised in the holy Catholic church, and although she was not particularly religious, she knew in her heart that until she was wed in her own church, she would feel slightly wicked.
Pansy and Maggie worked quickly to prepare the bride who silently obeyed their orders. Another serving wench arrived with a tray containing a small meat pie, steaming hot from the oven, and a tall goblet of heady, sweet red wine. Velvet ravenously wolfed the meal down, for she was very hungry. Then she suffered her face and hands to be rewashed. Silken undergarments and charming silk stockings with gold roses embroidered on them were brought and put on her. Somewhere a pair of shoes that fit her were obtained, and finally the gown was dropped over her head. The fastenings were neatly done up, then Pansy sat her on a chair and brushed her long, auburn hair until it shone with dark red and gold lights. The hair was left unbound to signify her virgin state and her head crowned with a wreath of wheat, symbolizing fertility. Then Pansy carefully fastened the necklace about Velvet’s neck. As the young tiring woman stepped back, she gaped in awe when Velvet stood and turned to face her.
“Oh, mistress! You’re absolutely beautiful!”
Maggie’s face was also soft with admiration. “I dinna believe thatHermitagehas ever seen a more beautiful bride,” she declared.
There was a knock on the door, and Maggie opened it to admit Lord Bothwell. He was dressed in the elegant red and green Hepburn plaid and a black velvet jacket. His blue eyes swept approvingly over the bride as he said, “Christ almighty, lass, ye’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. With each minute that passes I further envy Alexander Gordon.” He held out his hand to her. “Will ye gie me the honor of escorting ye?”
“With pleasure, my lord,” Velvet answered. “Since my own dear papa isn’t here. I cannot think of anyone else I would prefer but you.”
Bothwell winced at the mention of her father. Dear Lord! He certainly wasn’t old enough to be the lass’s father—or was he? He dismissed the thought immediately with a grimace and sent Maggie a black look, for he had heard her muffled chuckle. Her gray eyes danced with merriment.
Velvet put her hand into Francis Stewart-Hepburn’s, and together they walked from the room and down the narrow stone stairway into the Great Hall. Velvet’s eyes were round with amazement at the transformation that had taken place in just the few hours that she had been at Hermitage. The hall was decorated with pine, red whortleberry, and white heather. At the entry to the Great Hall Lord Both well said something low to one of his retainers, and the man hurried away to return a moment later with a small bouquet of white roses and white heather.
“The very last of the roses.” Bothwell smiled at her. “One of the serving girls found them by a sheltered wall and cut them for ye.”
“You’re so very kind, my lord,” Velvet said. “You almost make me feel guilty for being such a reluctant bride.”
“Captive brides are a tradition here on the Border, lass,” was his reply, “but I believe that within a few short days yer anger will have cooled. He’s a good man, ye know.”
“Aye, the queen said that of him,” Velvet replied.
“Did she now? Well ’twas never said that Bess Tudor was a stupid woman.” Bothwell stopped a moment and lifted her face with his hand. “Gie us a wee smile now, Velvet de Marisco, for I can see ye love the man, even if ye’re too stubborn to admit it. Pride is something I well understand.” She smiled up at him, and he said, “Aye, lassie, that’s it! Now, come forward, and we’ll meet yer fate head-on. Never fear to meet yer fate!”
Then he led her into the Great Hall, and a mighty cheer went up from the Borderers gathered there. Before the high board stood the hastily summoned preacher of Scotland’s new kirk and Alexander Gordon, the Earl of BrocCairn, freshly scrubbed, and with a black velvet jacket borrowed from Lord Bothwell to wear over his dark green, blue, and yellow Gordon plaid. On his shoulder he sported a magnificent gold clan crest, identifying him as the chief of his clan, the Gordons of BrocCairn. On the pin was the raised and snarling badger with red ruby eyes, and around the beast were inscribed the words “Defend or Die.”
The pipes began to skirl softly as the bride was led forward. Lord Bothwell placed Velvet’s hand in Alex’s, and without further ado the preacher commenced reading the marriage ceremony. Where are the beeswax tapers in the gold candelabrum, the sweetly singing choir, and the family priest in his glorious white and gold vestments? thought Velvet. For a moment she almost cried, for she so wanted her parents, her sisters and brothers, Uncle Robbie, Dame Cecily, Uncle Conn, and sweet Aunt Aiden. Instead she found herself in the stone hall of a Border castle surrounded by men, being married by a Calvinist preacher to a man she half feared.
“Say aye!” Alex hissed at her, and she said, “Aye,” as he pushed his own chieftain’s heavy gold ring upon her marriage finger. She had been paying absolutely no attention to what was happening at all. This was her wedding. Was she going to tell her children and her grandchildren one day that she didn’t remember the ceremony because she had been daydreaming? She giggled, and the preacher looked sourly at her, making her want to laugh all the more. Alex squeezed her hand in warning, and Velvet got a grip on her emotions though she was becoming nearly hysterical.
“I pronounce ye husband and wife,” the preacher said, and another mighty cheer went up in the hall.
Alex pulled her into his arms roughly and kissed her with a passion that left her breathless. When he let her go she was blushing, and his eyes mocked her. “Now, m’lady, ye’re most truly wed wi’ me,” he said softly. “Wedded, and soon to be bedded.”
“I will never truly feel wed with you until we are married in our own church and my family is about me,” Velvet said stubbornly.
“God’s blood, madame! How many weddings do ye want?”
“I think,” said Bothwell, interrupting what seemed to be another storm brewing between the Earl and Countess of BrocCairn, “that it is my turn to kiss the bride.”
Velvet held up a cheek for him to kiss, but Francis Stewart-Hepburn laughed mischievously and said, “Nay, lass,” as he took her lips. It was but a moment, and it was a sweet kiss. As he let her go he said, “ ’Tis the only time I’ve an excuse to sip yer honey, lass, and ye’re far too sweet to resist.”
The preacher had disappeared, and the lord of the castle led them up to the high board. “I must apologize for such a simple wedding feast, my lady,” Bothwell continued, “but I was not expecting to gie a bride away tonight.” Then he signaled the servants to bring in the meal. There was venison, boar, pheasant, quail, duck, and capon. There were platters of salmon and trout dressed with cress, bowls of peas and carrots and beans, as well as hot breads and tubs of butter and cheese. Ale and wine were both served.
Velvet ate sparingly, taking a bit of capon and another slice of trout, some vegetables, bread, and cheese. She was very nervous now, and her stomach was rolling. Only the wine seemed to settle it, but she drank sparingly even of that. She had been placed between Alex and Lord Bothwell, both of whom took delight in filling and refilling their plates and goblets until she thought that they would surely burst. A large apple tart with heavy cream was the last thing to be presented and it was the only dish that tasted good to her, so she ate two large pieces of it.
